


Under The Darkening Sky

by kittydesade



Category: The Dresden Files (TV series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:37:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydesade/pseuds/kittydesade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last peaceful evening the sorcerer Hrothbert and his lady share before the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Darkening Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themathpuppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themathpuppy/gifts).



His hands enveloped her tiny ones, sliding down her cool fingers to touch fingertips to well-worn yew wood as she stirred the cauldron. He was good, too, and polite, and did not wrinkle his nose at the smell even though she knew he wanted to.

"You don't have to assist me, you know," she turned her head just enough that the edges of his curls brushed over her cheek. Light brown curls touched liberally with gray, now. How many years had it been?

He smiled, turned his head to kiss her temple. "I know."

It was nearing autumn, now. Nearing the harvest fests. Time to begin preparing the food and drink for the feasts and, in her case, the potions for the spells and rituals. He would have been helping her but he was wrangling the younger wizards into something resembling shape to assist and that was taking all of his concentration and time, for the most part.

Today was a rare exception. Today she apparently had him at least somewhat to herself, and despite his near-constant leaning over her or touching or embracing her when she was attempting to work, it was the most exquisite form of annoyance she could imagine. "Dear heart, you're..." He moved out of her way before she could complete the sentence, clear eyes wide and disingenuous. She laughed, and selected the last two jars for the flying potion, handing one to him. He knew the potion as well as she.

"You know this isn't necessary," he added as she pinched the herb into the pot, stirred it thrice. He waited until the scent of the potion changed and then covered it with the powder. "We could do this on our own. There are spells..."

"That would be far too great an expenditure of energy for our role in the celebrations. We would be exhausted. We would sleep for a week after the whole thing," she kissed the corner of his mouth, smiling. "Whereas with this, we need only activate it and our spirits will soar."

Or in this case, those wizards playing the role of spirits in the autumn pageant.

He pouted for a moment, then smiled, bending to kiss her forehead and stepping back to let her finish stirring the cauldron.

"If you're really spoiling for something to do, _cariad_, you can begin chopping the …" He had already picked up the horn-handled knife and started chopping the fresh herbs to a fine dust.

The sun crawled across the sky, bathing the small thatched brewing hut in gold and orange and only tiny streaks of pale light. The flying potion had done its work and could simmer as soon as the fire died down, the smell reduced to a pallid echo of itself as the heat died. For a little while the only sounds were the animals outside, goats and the horses, the rhythmic thunk of his knife on the table and the liquid burps and ripples of the potion. The sorceress Winifred smiled to herself, scraping small amounts of crust from the sides. In her homestead she would have had people to do this for her if she'd wanted; even here she could have absconded with a few of his apprentices to help her.

She preferred it this way. It gave her an excuse to abscond with her husband now and again, citing her need for a little bit of help if she was to have half the preparations done in time, let alone everything that was planned. And she saw little enough of him these days, as occupied as he was with his studies and his students.

"Is that fine enough?"

She ran the tip of her finger through the herbs and looked up at him, grinning. "I love it when you defer to my judgment." For which attentiveness he received a longer kiss, one hand still on the carved yew spoon and the other sliding around his waist.

"I think the fire is …" he started, and it was enough to bring her head back and around to take a look at what she was brewing. She heard him chuckle behind her, wrinkled her nose at the cauldron as she moved it to the warming rack. Carefully banked peat fires smouldering in trenches in the dirt.

"More wood?" she asked over her shoulder instead, eyes just as wide and innocent as his had been. "If you please, love."

He gathered more wood for the fire, enough for the next several days' worth of brewing. The sun was almost setting by now, and while they could continue on into the evening past dark for a little while it would be easier if the delicate work was done while there was still daylight. Enough flirting with her husband of the past twenty years, and time to work.

"Wyn…"

"I hear them."

Hoofbeats coming along the river. Three riders, and Winifred frowned at the look of their horses, too lathered. Too fussy. She drew water while they dismounted and called out for her husband. She also did not roll her eyes or make any sort of scornful remark.

"Wyn?"

And she was particularly proud of the fact that she did not smirk as he called her up the moment they began talking of matters of import. Sometimes, she thought, they forgot that she was still one of the most powerful and rapidly becoming one of the most skilled sorceresses on the island. Her and her husband both.

Which was likely why these men were here. "What is is, _cariad_?"

"There's war brewing," he told her, his face drawn and eyes a little wide, stressed. Not just war brewing but a great war, something that would encompass all the tribes and likely the great land as well. "They've sent for us…"

Not us, by the look on the men's faces, but him. But he would ask her to come along.

"… to prepare against invasion."

His fingers sought hers and she tightened her grip around his hand, slipping her fingers between his. There was a pain in her chest that had nothing to do with her labours of the day, hauling water or wood, and everything to do with crawling fear and the premonition that if they went to this war, everything was going to change.

But it was invasion. If they didn't, it was likely that everyone was going to die.

Winifred, lady of Bainbridge, set her shoulders back and nodded. Someone else would have to lead the harvest rituals. "We'll prepare," she told the messengers, feeling the tension knot her shoulder-blades together as though she would grow wings. "We'll be ready by the high moon."


End file.
